


Flightedges

by merriell



Category: Original Work
Genre: College, F/F, F/M, Housemates In Love, LGBTQ Character of Color, M/M, young adult
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-15
Updated: 2019-10-15
Packaged: 2020-12-16 16:31:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 16,077
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21039284
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/merriell/pseuds/merriell
Summary: Eugene Shelton enrolled to a university in Louisiana to get away from his father and his boyfriend, where he was thrusted into a world of friendship with people he barely knew.genre: ya, friendship, contemporary





	1. Gene

**Author's Note:**

> This was an (unfinished) novel draft from 2011, then continued on Nanowrimo 2015, and I was... really, too young to write it at that time. I've written about 20k+ words of it already, so I wanted to post it somewhere just so I feel compelled to write it again.
> 
> Disclaimer: I know nothing about USA nor the college aspects of it past Youtube videos and YA Novel, so...
> 
> Pinterest board: https://pinterest.com/henrywinters/flightedges

His father had insisted to drop him off at the airport even though he refused.

Gene was seated in the back in a quiet defiance as his lips pressed into a thin line. His grey eyes stared at the roads that passed by from the window of his father’s Lexus. His father had been the one driving, light blue eyes watching the road in front of him, words flowing out quickly between his lips as he was talking to Bastian. Like most of the time, they were talking about the hospital they work at. They hardly talk about anything else other than that. Like a river’s stream, Bastian and Gene’s father’s conversation about the hospital was a constant that never stopped.

Quietly, Gene was grateful about the unsaid consideration. Or at least he’d want to think it as a consideration, rather than thinking that his father had stopped talking him the moment Gene refused to talk to Bastian more than a few polite exchanges. For the first months, they tried to include him into the conversation, but once it was clear that Gene didn’t want to, they gave up completely.

But it didn’t matter now—all those hours, spent trying to act like he was tolerating Bastian’s presence. He finally got to get away from his house, away from his father, away from Bastian. As soon as he graduated, Gene had enrolled into a fairly unknown university in Louisiana. He disregarded the letter of admission he received from a well-known university in his area with a good medicine program. His father had wanted him to follow his footsteps, to spend years in medical school and became a surgeon like him, but Gene already knew from the start that he didn’t want to do it.

_Anything but med school_, he had replied firmly to his father the last time he had brought it up. His father never did since.

“So, New Orleans, huh?” Bastian suddenly said, their conversation halted as he turned to him from the front. “I’m sure you’ll enjoy your time there.”

“Sure,” Gene shrugged impassively, passing Bastian-Francis a quick smile before he turned back to the roads.

His father made a disapproving sound.

Bastian himself quietened. Gene didn’t understand why he just _couldn’t _get it; whenever he was having the time of his life in their house, Gene wasn’t having none of it. Gene saw him press his lips tightly before he went back to chat with Gene’s father about New Orleans. Gene listened indifferently, one of his ear muffled by an earphone that didn’t let out any sound.

“When’s your flight?” William asked a few minutes later.

“10 AM.”

“We have to go back before 12,” William muttered. His fingers were wrapped around the steering wheel as he steered the Lexus to the airport’s parking.

Gene frowned. “I already told you I can just take an Uber,” he replied darkly. “_You_’re the one who forced me to get in this car. I don’t see why you have to drop me at the airport like a ten-year-old considering I’ll be alone there.”

William mirrored his frown, directing it to the rear mirror. “Gene-Adam, you’ll have plenty time to be an adult and be by yourself once you land on Louisiana. But for now, I’m gonna baby you for the last time.”

“Dad, I’m not a baby anymore.”

William was not having one of his sulks. “Anyway, you’re not coming home for Thanksgiving, right?”

“No.”

“I still can’t understand why you didn’t just enroll somewhere closer.”

Gene had a reason; a very simplistic reason that involved the man sitting beside his father. It would hurt him if he said it aloud, but he had a feeling in his guts that his father already knew why. So simply replied flatly, fiddling with the cable of his earphone: “I guess I just want to break out of the town.”

* * *

The flight to Louisiana was piloted by the worst pilot ever existed, which was why Gene found himself feeling really grateful when he picked up his belongings from the cabin—a simple backpack filled with a few clothes and his X-BOX bag—and got himself a taxi. He leaned back on the backseat and enjoyed the view once again. Unfortunately, his driver was three times more competent than his pilot. _Thank god_.

It took almost an hour for them to arrive on the destination place. As the taxi skidded into a stop, Gene handed a handful of money to the driver, making sure for it to pass the amount displayed in the meter. He picked up his X-BOX bag and fixed the position of his backpack before he stepped outside to the pavement, feeling the hard stone below his shoes.

The house was a medium-sized, two-floored house. The garden looked like it was never touched, and the house’s paint cracked and faded. Gene put a hand on the wooden fence, feeling the damp, rough texture of wood. He pushed it open. The sound it produced roared across the silent street, drowning the sounds of insects. Behind him, the taxi drove away, leaving him in a completely deserted street.

He stepped over the stepping stones that connected the front gate and the porch. His ears caught a sound of something moving between the tall grasses while his eyes caught a cat’s tail disappearing between it. As his sneaker touched the first step of the porch, he looked around him. It vaguely resembled his porch back at home, where his father usually spent rainy days drinking warm drinks on.

At least they used to.

The rocking chair in the porch moved slightly as the wind blew. The house’s door was open but the mosquito net was shut, revealing shaded faint edges of furniture inside. There was no bell on the door.

He was still contemplating whether he had to knock or yell loudly when the mosquito net slammed open. A guy his height stormed off, almost running over Gene if he didn’t move away in reflex. Following behind him was another guy with dirty jeans, pace much slower than the first one.

The latter guy spoke; his voice was thick with accent. “I’m _not _going to let you blow up my house!” His green eyes caught Gene’s eyes at the next moment, unguarded and surprised. They stared at each other for a moment of silence that would have continued if not for the interruption of a shrill, slightly higher voice that contrasted with the boy with dirty jeans. “Mess, c’mon. You put up _nothing _in the ad that forbid fireworks. It could be worse. I could be carrying _meth_!” It was then Gene turned to him and realized that the guy was holding a big-sized paper bag… filled with various kinds of fireworks, almost spilling over from the bag.

“I didn’t know that my tenant is going to be a _psycho _who thinks that storin’ more than dozen kind’ a fireworks in a paper bag is a great idea.”

“Look, if you don’t light it up, it’s a metaphor. It’s a thing that _can _kill you, but you don’t give it power to kill you!”

“Don’t quote that John Green shite on me, I will kick you out!”

“So you _do _read John Green.”

Gene eyed the pile of fireworks suspiciously. He’d seen it in the news, obsessive teenagers that get off on destruction that involves fire and burning buildings in their so-called jerking off sessions. He’d never had an acquaintance like that before, as he always hung out with the quiet boys, always maintaining order and rules. He’d never be friends with troublemakers before, and he wasn’t sure he was going to start. “Are you an arsonist?” he shot directly.

“I’m not an _arsonist,_” the firework guy replied, almost sounding offended.

Gene scurried to correct himself. “Oh. Sorry.”

“_Cher_, don’t be sorry. It’s not like he ain’t holdin’ a pile of fireworks in paper bag,” the deep voiced guy deadpanned darkly. “You must be the other tenant.”

Gene’s grasp on his X-BOX bag tightened, his eyes darting between the firework and the deep-voiced guy. “Gene. I’m Gene Shelton,” he moved slightly away when the firework guy approached him and held out his right hand, his left still clutching the paper bag to his chest. Hesitantly, Gene replied it, taking a good care to grasp his hand despite it was slightly damp.

“Joe Powers,” the firework guy flashed him a grin. He nudged a shoulder to the other guy. “And here’s our landlord. Messiah Roe. Odd name, but once you know him well you’d know it’s fitting, since, you know, he’s a fucking mess. He’s far from nice, but worry not, since there’s a better version of him. He has a twin sister, and she’s _gorgeous_…”

“Joe, the minute you lay a finger to my sister, your ass is in the streets,” Messiah growled at him like a dangerous feline, though the shit-eating grin on his face betrayed the words.

“I’m not interested…” Gene muttered, and was going to issue further statement if he didn’t feel the tug in his arm.

Joe had his hand around the fabric of his X-BOX’s bag. He shrieked excitedly, startling the other two, earning different reactions from each—Messiah rolls his eyes while Gene only could have his mouth slightly opened in surprise. “You brought your X-BOX! Do you play Call of Duty? How about Assassin’s Creed? Dragon Age? Destiny?”

Gene stuttered with words, but Messiah came to the rescue, drawling his words with his arms folded in front of his chest. “Let the guy rest, Joe. I know Californians like you don’t have basic courtesy, but _Jesus_.”

Joe sheepishly smiled at him and laughed, his laughter sounding like a jagged piece of broken glass. “Sure, sorry,” he answered. His eyes scanned Gene’s figure closely before asking again, “You didn’t bring a lot of things, do you?”

“It’ll be send via package,” Gene explained quickly. It was Bastian’s suggestion, and although he kept it inside, Gene thought it was a good idea. That was one of the times when he was grateful the man existed in his life instead of feeling like hating his existence. That never came explicitly, but his front displayed enough: that he didn’t enjoy the presence of Bastian’s constant soft voice or the smell of Cajun dishes he’d love to cook in big holidays. Gene was sure that Bastian noticed it, but was too kind to do anything past a polite smile, even when it had been almost four years that he’d been a member of the Shelton’s household, and four years also since Gene never warmed up to him.

“Oh, clever,” Messiah walked inside with slow strides, “I guess not _everybody_ get to be a dumbass, ya hear that, Joe?” Joe grumbled and followed behind him. When they passed the stairs, Joe darted off upstairs while Gene stepped into the living room.

One thing he had noticed first was pile of empty bottles of alcohol in one corner of the room, discarded but placed tidily, like someone had taken attention to display it in a courtly fashion. Silently he wondered why they bothered enough to put it in lines rather than throwing it away. The second thing he noticed was a big portrait that had been put off from the wall and now was just leaning against the wall it used to occupy—dust formed into a rectangle above it—turned around so only the back of the canvas showed.

He was going to remark something about it when Messiah’s head appeared from the corner, making Gene turn. “Should I fix you a drink?” he asked, his hooded eyes watching him intently.

Shaking his head, Gene’s eyes darted slightly at the bottles. “No thanks, I don’t drink,” he replied, hand clutching at the strap of his backpack.

The corner of Messiah’s mouth flicked into something of a smile, but too faint to be called one. His head disappeared back behind the corner before he appeared back into the view, then leaning against the kitchen, putting his chin on his hands. The shaded porch hid it, but Gene noticed then a fading bruise on his right cheek, lit visible under the lamp in the kitchen. His voice blended into a light tone as he added, “You _must _be very thirsty, then.” He nudged at the water dispenser in his left. “Well, if you’re ever interested into breaking your… particular taste, I don’t charge for water. Unless you broke the dispenser.”

“That’s not what I mean. What I mean is I don’t—“

“_Cher_, I’m joking,” he shrugged and turned away. He walked to the sink and turned the water on. Walking towards the kitchen, Gene could see two piles of dirty dishes on the sink, unwashed and decorated by a layer of dried grime. He couldn’t help but to feel a little disgusted. He turned away and reluctantly took the backpack off his back, seating himself carefully on the dinner chair.

Gene stared at the couch near the dinner table. It was ratty and he could see different patterns patches sewed messily into some parts of it. There was a ripped off part on the side of the couch, the foam missing, as if someone had picked on it while they watched television. The television itself wasn’t a mile better—it was a model from a decade ago and the buttons were all missing.

It was inevitable, for a place with rent that low.

“Are you disappointed?” Messiah asked, rousing him from his thoughts. He stood with arms folded in front of him, trapping an unlit cigarette between his lips. He regarded him carefully, “Not exactly high class, you know, this house. But we have to always make do. If you want to play your X-BOX, I’m afraid we’d have to buy a new one,” he shrugged. “Or Powers over there could see his fireworks or even ask his rich-ass parents. Buy us a new one.”

“He’s rich.”

“He’s gotta be, with the thing his Pa had driven him with.”

Gene’s eyebrow rose.

“A G-wagon.”

He made a dismissive hum.

A beat passed. Messiah pulled out a cheap lighter from his jeans, the one you could get in gas stations all across America. He lit up the cigarette and leaned back to the island. Gene tapped at the table, couldn’t help but feel a little awkward by the whole situation. His nervous thoughts race to determine whether he should or he should not start conversation. At the end, he didn’t found any, for Messiah took another drag and blew it before saying, “Or y’know, we can always crash at Spence’s place.”

“Spence?”

“You’ll meet him. Spence will like you better. It’s obvious that he doesn’t like Joe. Too much… bullshit for His Highness. Don’t be blamin’ him just yet, I don’t like Joseph that much either. But you, you’re quiet. You’re the thinkin’ type. He’d like that.”

“I see,” Gene answered quickly.

Messiah glanced at the clock and took another drag. “You should rest. Your room’s upstairs. Sleep all you want, but up on 7.30, will ya? Sis is takin’ us to a welcomin’ party at the diner. I trust you ain’t havin’ any friends here just yet.”

“Yeah, thanks.”

Nodding slowly, Gene picked up his bag and walked up the stairs, ignoring the little chuckle Messiah let out when he almost knocked over the stacked newspaper beside the couch. He shook off the blood off his face as he hurriedly made his way upstairs; his hand traced the walls that coated the walls. The vintage wallpaper with flower motives might had bright pastel colors when they glued it up, but now the colors were no more than a faded gray with rips everywhere. When he reached the upper floor, he saw three doors, all of them opened.

He passed by the rooms—one was of a girl’s, pink wallpaper and all, old dolls lining up the shelves with various kind of make-ups stacked neatly on the dressing table. A cool breeze from the opened window blew over him as he lingered for a few seconds, completed with birds chirping from the window. It must be Messiah’s sister’s room, he figured.

The second was Joe’s; he was laying upside down on bed, his eyes fixed to the wall across of him. His room was plain white with traces of posters in the walls, ripped out tapes leaving ugly marks on its stead. “Hey,” Gene settled to greet awkwardly, and instantly regretted his decision once Joe only slightly waved his hand as a reply. Feeling like he’d just disturbed something really private, he hurriedly took his strides to the last room, closing the door behind him as softly as he could.

His room was quite identical to Joe’s, but the walls were baby blue and there was a flower vase on the desk near the bed, filled with old, withered flowers. He dropped his bags on his bed and dropped his ass beside it after, while his hand touched the brown, dry leaves. It crumbled between his fingers with a loud crunch. Once he sat, he realized that the room was slightly bigger than Isaiah’s and Joe’s, and it smelled like old fabric. He pushed the taste away from his nose and lay himself back to the bed, feeling the cold shit pressing on his skin.

He could faintly hear a sound of rock music coming somewhere inside the house. The drums and the guitar riffs broke onto the still silence that flooded his room.

Something vibrated in his pockets, and Gene pulled it out and felt his frown edging slowly on his lips when he read who the message was from. He put the phone beside him, unread and closed his eyes.

He had circled the date of his flight to Louisiana from months before, but now that he was there at last, he missed his bed back home.

* * *

Isaiah Roe, to Gene’s surprise, was both alike and unlike her brother.

Like her brother, she was an olive skinned, lean-bodied person, naturally tall, bones jutting out from various places on her skin. But the green eyes displayed softness that was different than Messiah’s sharp eyes, and she held herself curtly, laughing with her mouth covered, her brother’s thick Cajun missing from her hoarse voice. When she smiled, she smiled widely and surely. She smelled like expensive, fancy body washes you’d find in Bath & Body Works.

And the most important thing was her hair was a shade of a pastel, light blue.

“No, no, it doesn’t damage my hair, fortunately,” she waved her hand dismissively to the question. Her light curls swayed on her shoulder as he walked. They were on the way to the diner, and Gene was so smitten with Isaiah that he almost bumped into an electric pole. “I used all the part time money I get for treatments, though I tried to use mostly natural ingredients so it doesn’t cost as much.”

“Told her to quite dyein’ it like that, but the girl won’t listen to nothin’ I say, I tell you… how do you put it, girl? However I’m dressin’ myself is none of ya business, dearest brother!” Messiah scoffed as he kicked a pebble. He had his arm wrapped on Isaiah’s waist, corner of his lips mocking his sister’s sudden moment of glory when Gene took his time _beaming _at her hair. “Yeah, righhhht. I’m just tryin’ to care, be a big bro she could’a be proud of, and here’s she is, shittin’ on me like I’m some stranger hittin’ on her on the way to school.”

She rolled her eyes at his commentary, but didn’t contribute further than a dry, “If you want to be that, you can start by stopping yourself from getting into trouble.”

“Never said I wanna, _cher_.”

As the pedestrian light turned green, they made their way across the street to the bright, shiny diner only two blocks away from the Roe’s house. The place was filled with a Sunday night crowd when they walked in, straight to the deserted corner at the end of the line. The table was already half-full when they stopped and sat, the Roes exchanging loud greetings while Joe and him waited to be introduced.

“Okay, guys. These are our two new tenants. Here’s Joe, he’s from California, and here’s Gene. He’s from the South, Alabama, isn’t it?” Isaiah said as pushed them to the seat. “Sorry, it’s crowded, but it’s always this way.”

“Nice to meet you, I’m Naomi Montperre,” a half-Japanese girl flashed them a smile. She nudged at the dark-skinned guy beside her. Gene was struck by the sudden realization of how light his eyes were when their eyes met. “This is Spencer. Spencer Liebgott.” She then moved on to a Desi girl who was playing with a Nintendo 3DS at the end of the table. “That’s Arya Terzi.”

“Yo,” Arya said without looking up.

As they settled on the crowded table, Messiah rose his hand to call a blonde waitress that was just only coming out of the kitchen. “Y’know, a fact about me, I’m banned from almost all the mart n Louisiana, and few of ice cream shops, but here’s a special one,” he said, and Gene knew he was speaking to Joe and him even though his eyes were fixed to the blonde waitress. “Hey, Lamia.”

The waitress gave them a stern look—it was at this moment Gene realized that she was their age—and then smiled while she said, “Good afternoon, _monsieur _and _madame_, may I take your order?”

“Stick to Greek,” Messiah muttered.

“_Filese to kolo mou_,” Lamia replied.

“Dunno what that means, but ‘s must be rude, so I’m gonna say, you’re such a _bitch_, you’re lucky I love you.”

She pointed at her name tag. “Job description. Orders, please.”

His new friends scramble through the orders without paying attention at the menu, while Gene stared at it, contemplating whether to order something that sounded like a breakfast menu that was his favorite thing to order in any diners he ever walked in on. He ordered the last, bacon and eggs with sweet ice tea, and the group had already fallen into conversations before he finished his order with a ‘please’.

As Gene stared at Lamia’s back as she disappeared to the kitchen, he was startled when he found Naomi suddenly addressing him. “Hey, Eugene, right? What department are you in? I haven’t see you before.”

“Oh… I’m a freshman, actually.”

Messiah let out a high whistle that ripped loudly in the air, his attention suddenly turning from his phone to Gene. “Why are you missin’ out on the freshmen experience? I heard ‘s pretty good, ain’t it Spence?”

“I had a hell of a roommate, so not really,” Spencer answered, his voice soft and gentle. He was leaning against the window, staring outside like there was something interesting behind the glass. “Did the university even allows an off-campus housing for freshmen?”

“Well, looking at Eugene here, they probably did,” Lamia replied to him with a smile. “And what about you, Joseph. Are you a freshman like our friend Eugene?”

It was Messiah who answered this time as he put down his phone at the table. “Joseph ain’t a freshman, he’s a transfer student. None of us can know why, though, pretty personal.” He smirked at the sight of Joe rolling his eyes. “I hope you’re not hiding some dark, mysterious past that will bite you back on your ass.”

“I’m not hiding anything,” Joe replied back.

“_Cher_, we’re all hidin’ somethin’.” He dropped a smile at Gene, and Gene suddenly had felt his blood turn cold. He had to shake it off by thinking to himself that there was _no _way any strangers in this place would figure out why he was here with them instead of a dorm at his university.

After that, Gene pushed his back as deep as he could to the cushion of the chair he was sitting. He replied back a few polite answers and some explanations about Alabama that Isaiah asked him, but mostly, he spent the time trying to hide in plain sight, which wasn’t an easy thing considering how talkative and friendly this group of friends are. He could feel Messiah’s gaze at him, playful and threatening at the same time.

When the food was delivered, Gene couldn’t help but to mutter “Hallelujah” that earned him a raise of an eyebrow from Joe who instantly dug in to his meal while still talking to Arya, who replied indifferently as she was still playing with her 3DS, with only a glass of vanilla milk served in front of her. He spooned the food to his mouth slowly, his eyes travelling to Spencer’s fond smile as he joked around with Messiah, to Isaiah’s laughter, to Naomi’s amused look, to Arya’s occasional chuckle and how Joe was absolutely pestering Arya.

Despite of how close they all looked like—with exceptions of Joe, who was new like him but hadn’t exactly bartered any meaningful or friendly talks with Gene beside the topic of his X-BOX—he didn’t feel lonely or alienated.

That was weird.

Once he had finished his food, he’d realize that he didn’t hear any buzz from his father past the message he received earlier. He groped around for his phone, and was struck with the sudden realization that he didn’t have it. His already-pale skin paled even further, and he fumbled around with his right pocket just to find loose strands of fabric that was created out of use and harsh washing machine handling.

“Are you okay? What’s wrong?” It was Isaiah who had noticed him at that time, asking gently.

He would’ve been beaming at her at that moment, because a pretty girl _cared _about him, but all he could manage was a weak, panicked, “I—I think I lost my phone.”

Joe turned from Arya’s 3DS, staring. “Maybe you left it at home.”

“That can’t be—I was checking the time when we got out of the house!”

He stood up and fumbled with himself. His wallet was still in his pocket, but he still couldn’t find his iPhone anywhere. Joseph was the only one who stood up now, helping him check his pockets, and he stared in shock as he realized that his new friends weren’t even paying attention to him. He followed the trail of their glances and found himself in the same eye level as Messiah. Holding an iPhone with a case that was similar—no, the _same_—as his.

“Are you _serious_, Messiah?!”

Before he could even say anything, though, his mouth clicked shut with the sound of Isaiah’s voice. She had left her sweet, soft voice for a harsher tone; and she quickly grabbed the phone off Messiah’s hand and punched him in the shoulder. Gene felt like his inside just turned to stone. He didn’t know whether to feel grateful that it wasn’t really lost or feel panicked by the fact that one of his housemates was an arsonist and the other is a _thief_.

“I was gonna give it back to him,” Messiah shrugged.

“_You _are an asshole!” his sister said, and a sound of shoes hitting bone could be heard in the sudden silence that followed after. Even Arya had closed her console, her 3DS resting peacefully in front of her. Isaiah stood up and pushed Messiah to the seat and made her way to Gene, who was still stunned by the sudden realization of how he should be panicking that he has gotten himself into some shit he wasn’t sure he could escape from. “I’m so so _so_ sorry,” Isaiah said as she handed the phone back to him, holding his fingers tight. Her hands were cold.

Gene only stared at her hands in where their fingers had intertwined, not sure of what to say. He wasn’t okay with it, but he wasn’t going to throw a tantrum to the only acquaintance he had in a new place that he didn’t know. After an awkward, jagged silence, he could only mutter “It’s okay,” and pulled his hand and his phone away from her grasp.

The atmosphere wasn’t great—it was obvious that Isaiah was upset, far more upset than Gene himself. She turned in her heel and let out a frustrated sound before she went outside, her pink curls blown away by the wind when she opened the door. The bell rang as it closed behind her.

Messiah reached out for Isaiah’s sweet iced tea and drank it, sucking the brown liquid out of the straw with an expression that could rival Buddha himself.

Gene pushed himself away from his seat and went to the bathroom, passing Lamia as he did. When she offered him a warm smile, he instantly regretted the fact that he decided to rush past her without replying it.

The bathroom was empty when he walked in. Neon blue lights filled the white-tiled, cramped room with some kind of melancholia that differed from the warm, yellow vibe of the restaurant. He stared at his reflection at the mirror before reaching out for his phone. When he opened it, he was surprised to discover that the messages from his Dad hadn’t been opened—but he was pestering him to call back. 4 missed calls already.

He coughed softly before calling back, staring at the words written in the bathroom walls as he did. It took five rings for his father to pick up, and when he did, before he could ask anything, Gene already surged him with so many words, for he knew that his father would suspect something was up if he didn’t.

“Hey, Dad. I can’t be long now, since there’s a party soon. Sorry for not picking up the phone, but y’know, busy college life, so on so on. My roommate’s pretty nice. He loves my X-BOX.”

“I’m glad to hear that, Gene,” Gene could imagine his father smiling warmly as he said that, “don’t let me disturb you. Just keep in contact with us, okay?”

“Alright. Thanks, Dad.”

“Son?”

“Yes?”

“I love you.”

“Come on,” he groaned. “Bye, Dad.”

He hung up and pocketed his phone again. He could hear his heartbeat in his ear. Turning to the mirror, he turned the tap on and washed his face before wiping it with his shirt, not caring how it had copied his features. He tapped his wet hands on his pants before walking out—

And was surprised to see Naomi leaning on a wall in front of the toilet. She looked up from her heels and caught his eyes, and offered him a gentle “Hey.”

“Hey… what’s wrong?”

“I just want to apologize to you for what happened earlier. It isn’t the first time Messiah had done this, but he’s a good person, I can promise you. He’s just… a very complicated person. And, Isaiah left because she’s worried, so you shouldn’t feel guilty about it.”

“Um…” Gene trailed off. “It’s fine.”

“Messiah is of age now, so it isn’t going to be juvie next if he fucked up again, he’ll probably have to go to prison. So, you can see why Isaiah is worried. Let’s go back to the table?”

_Juvie_? Gene stared at the back of Naomi’s hair as she pushed away from the wall and went back to the table, leaving him alone in the hallway without turning back. He took a step and another until he reached their table, but as he glanced at Messiah and his laugh as he pestered Spencer’s food, he couldn’t concentrate anymore on anything beside the words he just heard.

Prison?


	2. Joe

The walk back home wasn’t anything pleasant. Anyone could actually smell the tension in the air, even through the humid weather of Baton Rouge’s night.

Two was the amount of cigarettes Messiah had smoked since they’ve left the diner, Joe knew, he actually counted it, eyes trailing discreetly at Messiah’s every movement. He was on his third cigarette now, and in contrary to the departure from the Roe’s residence to the diner, when he opened his mouth, only smoke came out. The faint smell of his Marlboro trailed behind him, like floating footsteps that couldn’t be seen by just anyone. Spencer was walking beside him, shrugging his hands inside his hoodie’s pockets.

Gene was quiet, but he’d always been quiet from the first time he’s arrived. Joe hadn’t known him for long, but he’d figured that it was a crucial part of his personality. Gene kept an awkward distance between him, Messiah and Spencer—and Joe couldn’t say he was being entirely unreasonable.

Even someone as terribly insensitive and uncaring about people as Joseph Powers could smell the odd scent. He repeatedly let out big sighs, big breaths; noisy ones that had him earning a judgmental once-over from Spencer. Joe pointedly ignore it, as he’d seen the gaze plenty of times, gaze that meant that whoever on the receiving part was being plainly obnoxious. That can of gaze Joe could handle. He’d made friends with it for years, and he knew he’d still be tasting it years to come.

Joe was on the verge of sighing again for the fifth time since they start walking. He took a big, deep breath, but before he could breathe out, Gene suddenly attacked him with a sharp voice. “Can you stop being so fucking annoying?” Startled, Joe almost choked on his own breath. An eyebrow raised, he stared at the ginger-haired guy, confused but also intrigued by the sudden change in personality.

Their walk halted with the sudden poison. Messiah turned, a corner of his lips raising. Spencer simply frowned, but by this point, Gene is sure he just had no desire to emote whenever Isaiah wasn’t around. They were all waiting for Gene to say something again, but the moment passed as Gene shook off his words and muttered a soft apology.

“Y’all. He’s _so _intense,” Joe shrugged.

Messiah mirrored his shrug and started walking again, but Spencer looked over to Gene from Messiah’s shoulder and said gently, “I’m so sorry for what he’s done earlier. It was really rude.” He stared down at Messiah, who was three inches shorter than him—every one of them was so tall that Joe felt small in the middle of them, and the entire time he had to raise her chin to look and their face—and frowned at him. “You shouldn’t have taken his phone like that.”

Messiah rolled his eyes at Gene. “Can you act it like it’s some kind’a, how to say it, fraternity hazing? If it makes you feel better, I do it to everyone. No hard feelings, yeah?” He offered a shrug. His carefreeness amazed even Joe, the way he dragged everything slowly, everything in his own tune. He looked like he wasn’t tied down with anything.

Gene didn’t answer. He stared at the pavement in silence.

Messiah caught the look. He blew out a trail of smoke from his chapped lips and started walking again.

It took them ten minutes of silence for them to reach the twins’ house. Joe was kicking a pebble that found itself near his feet when Messiah and Spencer stopped in their tracks, staring at the opened door of their house—it swayed lightly from the breeze; the dim hallway shone through the opened door.

Spencer turned to Messiah. “It isn’t like Isaiah to not close the front door. Have you locked the door before we go?”

“I did,” Messiah answered shortly. He didn’t waste his time to continue the conversation. He pushed open the fence and walked inside, his pace quicker than his usual stride. Gene, who was a few steps behind them before, put his hand on Joe’s shoulder and pushed him slightly away before quietly following Messiah. Maybe he thought that if there was something to be stolen at the Roe’s household, it was his game console.

“What an egoist,” Joe muttered to himself. When he saw Spencer raised an eyebrow at him, he gave him a wide grin. “We’re missing all the fun by staying here. Let’s just go inside!”

He could him sigh softly from between his teeth when he passed by him, Nike sneaker stepping on the gravel towards the house, but he could hear Spencer following behind him. He stopped at the porch and let him fell beside him, thrusting his hands into the pockets of his jacket that he wore for style rather than functionality, considering it was very hot in Louisiana at that moment.

“You know, what if it’s a thief?”

“Thief?” Spencer asked, frowning. “If it’s really a thief, we’ll sure to hear the scuffle right now. Messiah isn’t really the negotiating type, more of a _punch _first think later type We’d have to call 911.”

“Huh. I was expecting we catch the thief a la The Famous Five or something,” he shrugged. Before Spencer could reply, he stepped into the door, just to be almost knocked over by Messiah, who fortunately put a finger on Joe’s chest before their bodies collided.

Spencer’s voice had a ting of worry when he asked, “What’s wrong?”

Meanwhile, Joe found himself staring at Messiah’s eyes… it was terribly green. But soon after those very green eyes slowly glazed away from him to Spencer. He pushed Joe away with a push of a finger, surprisingly gentle, leaving Joe slightly dazed from the touch. “Ain’t nothin’ to worry about, it’s just that woman.” The way Messiah was spitting that word out—‘that _woman_’—sounded like it was something distasteful, something he’d grown to hate.

Spencer gave a hint of an understanding. The topic was dropped so quickly it felt like it was never there at the first place. “I’m going back, then. Take care, Mess,” he turned around and walked down the porch, only to linger at the bottom and added, almost like an afterthought, “And you, too, of course, Joseph.”

As he left the fence’s door closed behind him, Joe found himself left alone in the porch with Messiah standing close to him. He didn’t realize it before but he smelled like soap beneath all the cigarettes he’d smoked, a faint smell that became overpowering as their bodies almost touch.

“That woman?” Joe sounded the question without looking up to see his face.

“My mother,” Messiah replied without explaining further. He shrugged and went inside without turning his glance to him.

Raising an eyebrow, Joe followed him inside—as much as horror thrilled him, he didn’t want to be alone in the neighborhood, especially with the dim streetlights and the tall grass in the Roe’s lawn. As Messiah turned to the kitchen, Joe made his way upstairs, still staring at the buzzed hair of the back of Messiah’s head, lingering a bit halfway up.

A faint argument began not long after, too faint for him to hear, and he would’ve stayed there listening if he didn’t realize that Gene Shelton was staring at him from the top of the stairs, already changing his clothes to a more casual attire than his previous one, despite it all. There was a rip on the edge of his white shirt.

When their eyes met, Gene didn’t comment his nosiness as much as glare at him. But it had worked, for the glare worked better than words—if it was words that flew out of Gene’s mouth, Joe would’ve been able to counter it. Instead, defeated under the gaze, Joe continued his steps upstairs, brushing shoulders with Gene as he did so.

“Shouldn’t do that,” he heard Gene mutter behind him.

His room was cool when he walked in, much better than the first time he’d been in Louisiana before, at summer where everything felt like it was going to stick his skin in the grossest way to ever exist. Luckily, the term had started in a cool autumn. He’d heard that he wasn’t going to see snow unless he went back to New Jersey, but New Jersey wasn’t the kind of place he’d return to right now when all the mess was still going on.

He stared at the fallen corner of his newly-stuck poster of Nirvana that he taped that morning, the time he had almost fell over trying to stick it on the ugly wallpaper. A sigh slipped away from his mouth as he made his way to it, grabbing the baseball bat he’d found scattering around the house earlier that day before pushing the corner to the wall, still having to stand on her tiptoes while doing so. He knew he would’ve had to shop something that stick better than cellophane tape that he brought with his little box of crafting tools, but for then, it would have to do.

It was then something crashed inside the house.

At once, Joe rethought his decision to go upstairs to let the Roes have their bit of privacy, despite his curiosity of the sudden family drama that had ensued in the house. He left the baseball bat near the bed before rushing outside, just to find Gene sitting at the upper part of the stair. He had to refuse himself a bit of an annoyance as he walked over him and went downstairs, just as a woman, tall and with features like the Roe twins, passed by him before slapping the door closed; their eyes hovering each other just before she did.

“Joe—“

He ignored Gene’s calling and walked to the kitchen, just to see Messiah Roe picking up the broken glasses that was the same color as the lined bottle in the floor. Did she knock over it or did she do it on purpose? Joe wasn’t sure. What he was sure was one thing: maneuvering over broken glasses and settling, kneeling in one leg while he helped his landlord pick up the shards from the floor.

Messiah didn’t even look up; he muttered softly, “You’re too nice,” but Joe caught it before Messiah stood to throw the shards to the trash bin.

The situation was tenser than the walk back home, but strangely, the still silence of the kitchen seemed like it was a fitting fit rather than exchanged awkward words. Joe tried to pry a small shard from the floor just to get his shoulder tapped by Messiah, who gestured him to get up. He did what his friend said; his gaze watched as Messiah swept the floor with a broom, leaning on the dining chair with his palm still full of glass shards.

“Sorry for that,” Messiah sounded his voice again when he’d throw away the shards from the backdoor in the kitchen that Joe hadn’t notice before. He put the broom beside the doorknob and crossed his arms in front of him as he stared straight at Joe, who found himself stumbling with words like a fool. “She’s home every once in a while, but ‘s not always this… messy.”

Joe tried to keep the mood light. “Well, you’re always a ‘Mess’.”

Messiah had the decency to scoff. He shrugged. “Good point, Joe.” He turned to his left, opening the fridge with a flick of his hand. Joe noticed that the fridge was something futuristic in the middle of a vintage sea of the Roe’s household, an alien figure in the middle of a house copy-pasted from a 90s advertisement. Messiah’s head was covered by the fridge when he suggested, “You should probably throw away those shards before it hurt your hand.”

“Oh! Of course,” Joe started hurriedly before going over to the bin, carefully dropping all the shards he had picked up there, flicking any small shards with his fingers. When he had finished, Messiah offered him a can of beer. He accepted it without blinking and opened it, took a sip; he was a heavy drinker, but a really bad drunk. The current environment would be unfitting for it.

Another silence enveloped them as they leaned on the island, side by side, taking a sip of a cold beer that somehow tasted better than any beer he had back home. Joe pulled the can far away so he could see its brand, and saw that it was the same beer that he’d always drunk at the backyard of his old dorm. Why it tasted better, he didn’t know exactly.

“I’m sorry that ya have to see that,” Messiah interrupted him between his thoughts. His voice was a melancholy mix of annoyance and sadness, to Joe’s amazement.

Joe decided on a shrug, for he had a care-but-not-care-that-much to maintain for him to not pry more than just a hint of what he was seeing. He’d find out more, but he knew it wasn’t going to be now. He settled on a soft, “Are you okay?” instead.

“I’m fine. Thanks for asking.”

“Is it that terrible?”

“What?”

“Your relationship with your mother.”

“She’s a drunk,” Messiah stopped there, and let the words hung in the air.

“That’s not what I asked,” Joe muttered to his beer, aware by how far he was pushing.

A silence. His heartbeat quickened for a few seconds, fearing the anger that was going to be directed at him. But when he braced his gut and looked at Messiah, Messiah was staring at the floor. His face showed no annoyance nor anger, more of a serene melancholy that was a strange thing in his features; a contrast difference from his slow, mocking smile.

His eyes closed, burying the green irises behind it, before he bothered to answer, “Yes.”

Joe was caught off-guard by the honest reply. He scrambled the words inside his brain before frantically choosing a casual “I’m sorry.” He knew it was the shittiest thing to say in that kind of situation—his sympathy would change nothing, and probably would rouse the anger out of his new friend, his calm a calm before a storm that would be easily disturbed, easily ended.

But Messiah opened his eyes and smiled gently at him. “It’s okay. It’s always been like that.” He took a sip of his beer and looked away, his shoulders flexing as he walked away from him. Joe found himself frozen cold in the kitchen, only capable of watching Messiah’s back disappear in the hallway.

When he heard the front door closing, his heart skipped a beat. He only dared to move when he realized he was alone in the first floor.

* * *

The next morning, after a scuffle between him and Gene in the bathroom that involved him taking up the toilet for pooping when Gene was hurrying (when Gene yelled that he wanted to check out the coffee depot before he went to class, Joe found himself rolling his eyes as he swiped the dating app to the left), he was surprised to find Isaiah already up, burning bread in the kitchen. He watched in amazement as she stumbled with the blackened coal of what must have been bread, still hot, handing it to the pity of the trash can.

“Do you need help…?” he asked, out of courtesy, because despite that all he’d ever cooked back at home was instant noodles and bacon and eggs, he was pretty sure he wouldn’t burn bread, who the fuck would burn fucking _bread_?

She smiled brightly at him, even as the air still smelled like something was burning. “It’s fine, really, it’s just an accident,” her words flew clearly, he noticed, something that was different from Messiah’s grumbling thick accent. “I just had to brush my teeth and I forgot about the bread for a while…”

He eyed the opened plastic of bread on the table and let out a sigh. “Let me help, okay?” When he approached and took the bread from the table, she moved aside and muttered a “Thank you” before disappearing to god-knows-where.

After putting the bread to the toaster, Joe went to check the fridge. The only modern thing turned out to only be a shell of what it looked like; there was nothing he could muster out of the ingredients he’d seen his fridge was full of back home. He scoffed as he pulled out a pack of bacon out of the fridge—half-empty. If he could help it, there was _no _way they were starting their year in the university with only a toast as a breakfast.

He struggled frying the bacon, trying hard to not be kissed by the hot oil, standing as far as possible from the stove. It must have looked weird. But thanks to him, the house was graced by a delicious smell of cooking bacon—and of course it dragged the entire house to the kitchen in a flash.

“Nice,” Messiah suddenly muttered, appearing behind him. Joe would’ve kicked him in the shin if this was the first time, but for then he could only gasp softly in surprise. “Finally, a normal person breakfast.”

“Can’t she cook _at all_?” Joe found himself asking in a polite tone, despite how potentially offensive his wording was.

Messiah shrugged. “It’s not that bad.”

“You undermine _everything_, Messiah, how am I supposed to believe that?”

A laugh was produced; Messiah tilted his head. “Amusing,” he remarked with a tinkle of tease in his eyes. “How is the rich kid from California is going to believe me, a pickpocket from New Orleans?” He rambled on in French, something that Joe couldn’t understand, and all he could do was grumble slightly in annoyance.

Well, to be fair: this was him _yesterday_, annoying Messiah, minus the French.

“You’re _so _not getting the bacon,” he grumbled at him, who frowned at once.

“_Puta_,” Messiah muttered, and for that once Joe understood what he meant.

What was there yesterday night was gone already. Joe didn’t know if he mourns or didn’t care for it, the way his heart raced, but it had felt nice and warm. He decided he liked it, but he wouldn’t have been found dead yearning for it. If it was there, then good grief, good for him. If it wasn’t, he was just going to act like normal, annoying little Joe who talked too much and listened very little.

Messiah had now settled on the dining chair, sitting backwards with his legs sprayed as it pushed against the back rest. His annoyance and curse words were gone then, replaced by his slow smile. Joe felt him watching closely as he transferred the bacon and bread to three different plates, putting it on the table without any care.

“Only three?” Messiah peered curiously. His hand went to snatch one of the bacons, but was stopped by Joe swatting his hand.

“C’mon dude! At least wait for your sister!”

“I feel hurt that you’re only carin’ about my sister,” Messiah started, sounding serious for the shit-eating grin in his face. Joe wanted to throw the plates at him again. “You don’t care about me, or that redhead kid. D’you even know his name? Eugene Shel… Sheldon, was it? Yes, that’s right…”

Joe pushed Messiah’s share to him, feeling disappointed how easy it was for him to fall for the words. “Do whatever you want,” he snapped, “And it’s Eugene _Shelton_, you babbling idiot, and he already said that he’s not having breakfast at home. Jesus, you’re beyond a mess, I swear, I understand not knowing his schedule, but can’t you at least remember his last name?”

“Sure cranky in the mornin’,” Messiah retorted, accepting the plate like it was an offering to a god.

A god with green eyes and dark skin, smiling at Joe like he was the most amusing thing in the world. Joe settled on shaking his head, ejecting himself from whatever daydream he was going to fall into. If he was going to daydream about any love interest that morning, it wasn’t going to be the most upsetting person in this whole household. Maybe that Gene kid and his temper wasn’t so bad compared to whatever shit and taunts Messiah had stored for him.

Joe sat in front of Messiah, tapping on the table. His eyes were staring at the hallway, waiting for a hint of a pink hair and gentle smile to somehow appear in the end of corridor. What was she doing, anyway? She already brushed her teeth, if Joe’s hearing was right, what would be so important for her to do after abandoning him to cook in her stead?

He didn’t notice Messiah’s fixed stare at him until he called his name—his _full name_—and woke Joe’s up from his thought. “Joseph, just eat, she’ll come later.”

His feelings for Isaiah’s kindness groaned in defeat as he reached for a fork at the end of the table. He pulled a trick, flipping the fork until his hand were circling the handle with a flick of his hand, but to his surprise, Messiah was no longer staring at him but rather busy ripping off a piece of his bread and putting it into his mouth.

Halfway through his toast, Isaiah slid from the stairs and rushed to them. The hint of animosity and tenseness between Messiah and her was gone by then, and already she gave him a kiss on the cheek, her fingers tilting his head up as he did. He was still munching on his bread when she went to sit beside Joe.

Joe realized that when she ate, she munched with her mouth closed no matter how much food she got in there.

“Are you not coming into class? You haven’t showered,” Isaiah said to Messiah.

Messiah hummed a dismissive tone. “Not comin’. First class is the worst.”

“If you keep skipping class you’ll fail,” she started, with her caring-but-somehow-annoying-to-hear-when-the-argument-went-on-for-days kind of voice. This might have been the first time Joe had heard of this argument, but from the tone, and how Messiah didn’t even hear closely and just stared off at a certain distance, Joe noticed that the argument was something that have been argued again and again without no solution. “Just hold on, be a good student, just for one year. You should at least get one degree. What are you going to do in your life without a degree?”

Messiah grumbled sickly. “Steal,” he answered, as-a-matter-of fact. He stood up, abandoning the plate on the table, leaving before any one of them had managed to say anything.

When he was gone, Joe glanced behind her; Isaiah worried with her lower lip, obviously thinking about Messiah. Their relationship looked like a paradox—they were close, but Messiah had argued harder than to anyone compared to the argument with her. Joe wondered what was up with that.

It must have been a twin thing, he decided without asking. It had to be. He had a little sister and a big sister back home and none of them had ever done something that made him feel the need to leave the room. It was their closeness that would bring rift into them, bring trouble instead of luck. He was suddenly grateful that he wasn’t that close to his sisters, he couldn’t have imagined the drama involving both of them.

“Is your relationship with him terrible?” Joe caught himself asking before he could prevent it. What kind of story was this family holding, anyway?

Isaiah widened her eyes, looking slightly offended. “No, we are close. We always have been. It’s only recently that I noticed his change in behavior. Honestly, I miss when he was playing a mess with the people who have shops in the streets, but now it’s me who has a single target behind my back.”

“That sounds horrible.”

“Well, in a way, it is. But we have grown up. I think it’s necessary for us to have few differences.” Isaiah pushed her light pink hair back to her shoulder. Joe found himself staring, and asking at himself, what do you mean _few_? “Do you have any siblings back home, Joe?”

“I have two sisters,” he replied. He remembered Joanna and her fascination for unicorns and how boy-crazy his older sister Jamie was. Not that he was _less _boy-crazy than her. “One younger, and one older. My younger sister is still in middle school, but my older sister works in a make-up corporation.”

She gasped. “That sounds _heavenly_.”

“It’s not that great, actually, she’s pretty like Scrooge McDuck when it comes to handing samples. I know that because my high school friends used to ask for it all the time, and she’s like, _what good would endorsing a product to little kids be_? And I was like, ugh, sis, you’re no fun, can’t you do it for your precious little brother…”

“And did she ever give you the samples?”

“Nope. Told you what her response was. I think she’d rather die for capitalism.”

“If I’m your sister, I would have given you one.”

“I wish you are my sister,” he replied, lying through his teeth.

* * *

By the times the class was done, Joseph felt a part of his heart just died.

Well, he _was _being dramatic, perhaps. But as he got no friend he could talk with—he really regretted ever taking Psychology as a major—maybe he wanted to die just a little. It wasn’t like it was his first class, he was a transfer student, for god’s sake, but he hadn’t been learning for so long and it had made everything boring. Or perhaps, he wanted to let his brain die and him rest. He frowned at the doodles he had cultivated in the last few hours, almost filling his A5 white notebook. It surged him with dread, in all honesty.

He slumped his head down to the table in front of him, his hair messy from many fingers which went through it. His hair was always messy, but then it was messier still, right there.

His sudden, forwarded existential crises suddenly ended as he felt something touching his shoulder. He lifted his eyes slowly to see a blonde girl staring at him curiously, the corner of her lips lifted into an easy smile. “Are you okay?” she asked, smiling at him like he was some stranded, wounded animals in god-knows-where Island that was the product of a stranded ship.

“Nope, I feel like my brain just died.”

She laughed. “Too much holiday?”

“Perhaps,” he shrugged. “I just can’t take it anymore.”

She laughed again, a kind of laugh that made her seem like she was losing out of breath and not losing her shit over Joe’s behavior. “Come on, Powers, get up. I’ll buy you a drink or something, let’s cheer you up for a bit. Get your spirits up.”

Joe lifted his head just a little to peer at the blonde girl, squinting. “How’d you know my name?” He asked. He didn’t feel like his teacher had acknowledged him more than just a glance, similar like every student in the entire class, but he didn’t feel like attracting a pretty, blonde girl he wasn’t interested with.

Something in the back of his head sneered at the thought.

She furrowed her eyebrows and then frowned. “You don’t remember me, do you?” She asked, the tone of her voiced rose immediately, her friendly personality gone off her hair in a flash. Joe found himself squinting at the girl, only turning more confused by the question, rather than being reminded of wherever he’d seen this girl from.

“…No?” He tried. “Who are you?”

“God damn it,” she grumbled. “You know. Diner. Waitress. Blonde one. Messiah’s friend?”

He was still squinting at her when the sudden realized struck him in the cheek so hard that he could feel it stinging red. Once the keywords were spoken, he realized that she was Lamia—the Greek girl who was the waitress at the diner. The only difference, beside the uniform, was the fact that she was wearing less make-up than she did the night before. Even her eyebrow was a pale tone that matched her hair, instead of the darker one he remembered seeing.

To contain the awkwardness and embarrassment, Joe settled on an easy laughter. “Oh my god, I’m _soooooooo_ sorry, I didn’t realize it was you, your eyebrows were more prominent,” he explained quickly, his motor-mouth trait showing its true colors. “If you aren’t that upset at me, I’d love to take that drink over. I think I need it right now,” he continued, because of course the fact that he was unashamed and indifferent to how much he had just fucked up was the nice rotten cherry in the already bad ice cream.

The girl, Lamia, frowned at him, probably conflicting between different decisions: whether to go alone or to suffer the insufferable consequences of having Joe as a company. But at the end she seemed like she was finding the latter better, for she said with a shrug. “Fine,” before leaving him to fumble with putting in his belongings on his sling bag.

When she disappeared from the room, Joe thought he was left alone, but as he walked out of the room, he found her leaning on the wall, her arms crossed in front of her, staring at the passing people with faint frown lines in her forehead.

“You’re done?” She acknowledged at him without turning his way. She pushed her body away from the university’s walls and started walking. “Why did you move here, anyway?”

“Huh?”

“You’re a transfer student, aren’t you? Why did you bother transferring here?” She asked, still looking ahead of her while he followed close behind her, keeping up with her pace more easily than keeping up with the Roe twins. “If you want to be here and was forced to go on whatever university you were in, I don’t understand why’d you transfer instead of applying here in the first place.”

A frown was invited to Joe’s lips. He stared at the untied lace that he was stopping on before he shrugged. “I think I just needed a change of air,” he lied flatly before she could say another thing.

They took a left straight to the cafeteria, the pair of them silent as they made their way to buy one of the drinks from the vending machine. When she gestured to him to choose, he’d chosen coke. She bought him the coke and herself the orange juice before throwing the cold can to him.

Pressing the can to his temple, Joe felt his brain resetting. “Thank you,” he said. As a reply, she shrugged and leaned against the vending machine.

Joe was taking a sip out of his coke when to his surprise, Lamia had glanced at him and said coolly, “You should have chosen to live here in the dorms instead of with the Roes. They aren’t half bad, but the mother is something else.”

A burp edging on the end of his throat, Joe couldn’t help but to stare at Lamia, curiosity pushing him to ask more, but politeness that must have been taught by Jamie prevented him from doing anything than burping. Lamia shot him a disgusted look, but he pretended not to see it.

Wanting to sound casual, he tried to look indifferent as he asked, “What’s up with their mother?”

“She’s a drunk. She rarely comes home, only leaving money for them. She was better when they were at elementary school, but once they’re old enough to get by on their own, she’s been leaving more often.” Lamia stared at her orange juice. Her drink wasn’t opened just yet. “They don’t mean to do it consciously, but when trouble starts happening between them and their mother, they drag everyone near them to the problem.”

“What do you mean drag everyone to it?”

“Last year, their mother got into some gig with a few of shady people in some bar, and ended up getting arrested. I don’t know how it happened, but Spencer’s family spent a lot of money trying to bail her out—not that the twins asked, but Spence is a really nice guy. Unfortunately, those few shady people aren’t half as kind as the cops who had let her go.”

“Then?”

“I think it would have been fine if next week, Arya didn’t encounter her getting cornered by one of those people while she’s going home from some concert for a band she likes… she ended up in a hospital after trying to stall them to not take Mrs. Roe anywhere while the cops were on the way.”

Joe found himself staring at the hole in his coke, suddenly quiet. Was there the reason the argument he heard that night? The slumped, tense shoulders of Messiah Roe? His sudden melancholy?

“Messiah was so sorry, he actually went over to Arya’s house and kneel in front of her and her family to ask for their forgiveness. Of course her family had been worried, but they didn’t think it was Messiah’s fault but it’s just…” Lamia shook her head. “She’s my friend, and she’s very kind. Of course she would forgive him. It’s one kind of heroic act, for her, so maybe in a way, she was glad to do it. Like in the stories.”

“I see,” Joe muttered.

“I’m saying this because I really don’t want anyone getting into trouble, least of all people like you, who are new and unattached to them. But if you even whiff the slightest hint of trouble with his mother again, please don’t try to help. You’ll just ended up being dragged to the black hole,” she finished. She rose her hand and opened her orange juice, drinking it in big gulps. When she pulled down her drink, there was something in her eyes that stunned Joe. “I just don’t understand why that woman try to give birth to them when she’s just going to abandon them and make trouble.”

He turned his gaze away from her eyes to his coke. He took big gulps until he had to burp several times; Lamia gave no indication she acknowledged those burps to exist. Meanwhile, his mind raced. He moved here to stay out of trouble, but of course, by a game of choice, it was trouble he found instead of peace.

After exchanging a few words, he found that he liked the Greek girl, but his mind was instantly off her as soon as he departed back, riding a bus from a station nearest to the university. As a group of school girls chattered in front of him about boys they like, he stared out at the windows to the passing buildings.

Tall buildings worried him. It made him fidget with anxiety in his seat, but he forced his brown eyes to look straight at them, at the shadows they created, at the small, microscopic lives that peered from the windows. He wondered how many peoples were in them, living their lives calmly, unbothered by the people below, people like him, who could only raise their head and stared at the walls.

Joe tried not to think about how the buildings reminded him of the fraternity in his previous university, despite it not having to reach half its height. But the thought kept bothering him. He shook his head to shoo the horrible images away, of the fire, of the ghost of the heat that followed.

As his bus passed by the Roe’s neighbourhood, he closed his eyes.


	3. Isaiah

Though most of the time Isaiah tries not to worry about her brother, she felt like it was impossible to live a day without her twin’s easy smile haunting her. She didn’t know where he was right then, the fact making her anxiety shoot through the roof. Maybe she would use her part time money to buy him an _actual _phone. He had this, cheap Android phone that didn’t even work properly due to it falling far too many times, but even then, it was still hard to reach him.

“Stop thinking about him,” Naomi shot from across of her. They might be separated by the lines of clothes displayed between them and also by Isaiah’s silence, but Naomi had always been the one who saw through her no matter what. “We are doing this so you can keep your head off him, it isn’t going to work when you’re not even looking at the clothes and are still thinking of Mess.”

They were standing on one of the most affordable, indie clothing stores in New Orleans, out of Naomi’s idea. She suggested this out of horror after seeing how outdated Isaiah’s wardrobe was the last time she had visited—although her wardrobe had been curated (the best she could have) from the thrift stores she frequented, it was still _hard _to find anything that weren’t a year old at the very least.

“Fine, fine,” she said, trying to calm her. As Naomi went to scramble through another display, Isaiah frowned at the price tag. Without realizing it, she had quickly counted the sum in her head, a creature of habit from years of rationing the money their mother given them for groceries. Her mother had been giving them even less money than usual lately, and Isaiah had never touched any of Messiah’s stolen money unless it was already in the form of groceries. Her part-time job wasn’t going to cover their expenses—she was at least grateful by how their off-housing offer was accepted by the board despite them going over the limit of the radius, for some reason. At least they had that money to spend.

Inside, she was regretting how she wasn’t home the last time her mother was home. She would’ve been friendly and asked her to spend the night, just to ask where she had been. Instead, by her stroke of luck, she was off sulking at the park, head full of shame by the way her brother had acted to their new tenant. By the time Spencer found her in the park, Isaiah rushed home just to catch her mother but she was already gone when she arrived/ She guessed that Messiah hadn’t been exactly welcoming, as he was always was.

Messiah was never friendly to their mother. Isaiah knew that he wanted more, that he _knew _he deserved more.

Isaiah, on the other hand, was always trying to keep their mother home, no matter how futile it seemed, because she was their_ mother_. She was the only person in the world that hold such title.

She could have convinced her to stay home.

“What do you think about this one?” Naomi went out of the fitting room and twirled. She was wearing a cocktail dress, a blue one with sequin in the color of a darker blue that fit her; but clothes had always fit her beautifully—she had a model’s height and posture, and her features just accented the dress. She was offered a few model gigs over the years, which she always refused with a dismissive scoff, and a light _why would I do those?_

She smiled at her, out of amazement. Sometimes she was jealous of how good Naomi looked. “It looks gorgeous on you,” she complimented her honestly.

“And pretty cheap too. Come on, don’t just stand there, try on some clothes.”

As Naomi played Barbie doll with her, shoving her into a pair of clothes and another and another, Isaiah was amazed by something else: how carefree Naomi had chosen the clothes, without so much as glancing at the price tag. It was the kind of carelessness that she was jealous of, no matter how she shoved it deep inside her stomach, not letting it go out without any fight. Or at all.

But once she took a look at herself in the mirror, the money didn’t seem that important anymore. Naomi laughed beside her ear as Isaiah stared at how the dress matched her pastel hair. She was taken aback by how pretty her reflection looked until her eyes fell on the hanging tag at the side of her body. She tugged at the tiny paper. Her breath halted into a close when she realized that it was inside her price range, thanks to the discount. She could buy this, but—

“It’s so nice on you,” Naomi complimented honestly, something tinkling on her eyes. “You should definitely buy it.”

Isaiah wanted to. She felt so _good_ inside the dress, like she could do anything. And it would be fitting with any of Spencer’s attire when they do get into a date…

She shook her mind off the thought.

She thought about the electrical bills, the water bills, all the bills that she hid from Messiah so he couldn’t pay it with his stolen money. She could do it forever, but there were already various instances when he found out and paid for it instead. It wouldn’t be a stretch if he would pay for it if she was to leave the bills laying around, so she could definitely buy this piece of clothing, but…

She was stuck in the middle of dilemma, whether to close her eyes and let everything happen or to be sick of the routines that she had to endure with—that she _shouldn’t _endure with for so long—that have followed her over her teenage years. Missing out from activities, wearing the same old clothes again and again. How she colored her hair was the only form of self-care she allowed herself to.

Naomi tilted her head and asked, “Well?” And Isaiah was struck in the sudden realization of how much she wanted to be a member of the Montperres instead of her own.

She crumpled the soft fabric inside her palm and closed her eyes. Naomi wouldn’t understand it, how much she wanted and how much she didn’t want to buy the dress. She thought about his silence when he handed the payment confirmation for their daily bills. She thought about how Messiah muttered, _“Ma doesn’t care about us, you know_.”

She wanted to be selfish, for a while.

“I’ll take it,” she said bravely, even though there was a little horror pooling at the bottom of her heart, a doubtful anxiety of regrets to come. Naomi brushed her hand against her waist and called the shop clerk for one that wasn’t on the display. Meanwhile, Isaiah slipped behind the curtains of the changing room and pulled off the dress off herself before putting on her own clothes. Her eyes caught the sight in the mirror; oh, how so much perfect the dress was.

When she pulled the curtains aside, Naomi was staring at her. “I can buy it for you if only you ask me, you know,” she said without meeting her eyes. And here was another thing she would never understand: the shame of being treated by people, to owe people something you couldn’t probably pay in the same amount. “It’s not even that expensive, it’s like, fairly cheap. It won’t be trouble for me to buy it for you,” she continued. “Spencer does it all the time.”

The last line made her smile at her reflection at the mirror. “Spencer treats Messiah, not me,” she answered lightly. “I don’t have anything to do with it. I don’t have any control over what he gave or not give.”

Smile edged dangerously at Naomi’s lips. “Maybe,” she answered, lowering her voice small enough to make it truly sound like a mystery instead of the small reply of Isaiah’s words. “Let’s go pay this and we’ll go for froyo, okay? My treat, no nos now.”

After they paid—Isaiah lingering for long, fumbling with her wallet to find her card to pay for the dress—they went out, the door of the shop tinkling closed behind them. As soon as they were outside, they began chatting, lost in their own world as if the entire world was muted into grey colors around them.

Isaiah felt herself clutching the paper bag given to her by the clerk, like she was afraid that she was going to lose it somewhere around the way. But she didn’t exactly feel afraid… she felt somehow proud by her selfishness, an act of defiance to her own way of thinking. Maybe it was good for her to be selfish every once in a while.

The frozen yoghurt place was still empty of people when they walked in, arms linked to each other. Naomi snatched two cups from the counter and went to the self-service stations, peering over different flavors of frozen yoghurt, while Isaiah followed behind her, staring at the way the cashier frowned as he recognized them.

This was far from the last time they were here, but the last time, they weren’t only with each other—but with the team. The manager had almost called the cops if Spencer didn’t start speaking and Naomi didn’t start sliding credit card to Spencer like she was sliding a piece of eraser to erase all the faults that had happened there.

The same cashier was working shift at that time, but despite the fact that they had paid the frozen yoghurt that Messiah abused from the machine, it seemed like he wasn’t happy to clean up after their mess. When Isaiah threw a polite smile at him, he huffed a disappointed breath and turned away to the direction of a pair of couple who was doing almost nothing at all. Isaiah wanted to say more than a ‘_hey, I’m sorry for the last time_’ to him, but it didn’t seem like the best choice anyway.

As Naomi chose the flavor of her yoghurt, occasionally dropping some in her cup and devoured it between her tinted lips, Isaiah had already poured the chocolate-flavored one in her cup and started eating it. “Come on, hurry up,” she reminded Naomi, who was trying out a bunch of taste involving exotic fruits. She seemed to like it, for the way she seemed to praise every taste in every second. Isaiah was the old-school one among the two of them; she liked more to play on the safe side when it involved food. Naomi was a creature of a different matter. She would buy everything just to try it out.

Isaiah was half-done with her own yoghurt when Isaiah chosen a star fruit taste. They stopped in front of the topping station and started to fuss about what kind of topping that their yoghurt would have. Isaiah chose the Kit-Kat bar while Naomi chosen the canned orange flesh without having as much as a second thought.

Naomi offered a spoonful to her; Isaiah accepted it and suddenly exclaimed. “Tastes good!” she praised with beaming eyes. No matter how much of difference Naomi was, her taste was always great enough to impress even Isaiah herself. It amused her how much she liked what Naomi chosen, more often than not.

They lingered near the cashier. The cashier shot them dirty look of resentment, to their amusement. Isaiah settled for a polite smile and a whispered “Sorry about last time,” but Naomi cared more about how good her yoghurt was and how suddenly interesting the informative picture in the wall was. The cashier rose an eyebrow then went over the things, handing the bills to her. Naomi paid it without blinking; all she did was slide one of her credit card in a very vertical fashion. And all her worries disappeared.

They sat near the window so they could watch people walk by in front of the shop, even though Naomi was prone to annoyance every time she was exposed to the sun. That outermost table was also the quietest place in the entire frozen yoghurt joint, and it was also the only one where people weren’t on hearing distance of any of their conversation.

“Thank you for bringing me here,” Isaiah started after the least uncomfortable silence that had been reissued after they had sat on their special seat. “I think it’s very sweet of you, how much you’re willing to pay me. But I really don’t want to get treated by people that I know… or I don’t know, I don’t know.”

“I agree,” Naomi hummed a satisfied tone. She spooned a big haul of her yoghurt and asked again. “You should start being a little less selfless. It’s starting to hurt you.”

“It’s okay,” she lied through her lips. Maybe it wasn’t okay, but it was only the minority over the majority of them that weren’t okay. She took the Kit-Kat bar off her frozen yoghurt and continued, “Being selfless is not that bad. I can have my own satisfaction that I have to uphold, just you put other people first rather than yourself after that...”

Naomi reached and snatched a spoonful of Isaiah’s yoghurt. “Yum, but very basic,” he remarked before going back to her star fruit like she wasn’t eating Isaiah’s yoghurt just a few seconds before. Isaiah could only shake her head in disbelief as she ate another spoonful, feeling the sourness dissolve on the back of her mouth.

“I’m kind of glad that I bought that dress, though…”

“You should be,” Naomi said without looking up from her frozen yoghurt. “After all, no one really _cares _if you bought a dress or two.”

“It’s unlike I need a new dress…”

“You’ll need one when Spence ask you out on a date,” Naomi said loudly.

Isaiah glared at her. “Don’t,” she hissed, her cheeks darkening slightly in embarrassment.

Her crush for Spencer might not be something that was explicitly stated, but basically everyone known it already. Isaiah had no idea how people find out about her feelings, as though she was saying it out loud in a microphone while on a party, but the teasing that ensues more often than not made her want to bury herself in the soil somewhere and not come out for a decade.

Settling for a scoff, her friend put another spoonful of her star fruit yoghurt inside her lips, blinking. “Anyway, I heard your mother came home.”

“Yes, remembered the incident at the dinner? Turns out she came home when I wasn’t there.”

“I don’t understand why she’s keep doing this.”

“I don’t either, and it’s been years since I’ve been her daughter.”

“The idea is simply lost to me,” Naomi remarked with sad eyes. “I know you think I might not understand this, but I understand your pain.”

If Isaiah was her brother, or even having half of his personality, she would’ve rolled her eyes at the words. No, Naomi Montperre and her perfect art-woke family wouldn’t understand a bit of their misery. But since she was Isaiah, she simply settled for a smile, understanding that there was no bad intention in Naomi’s words. She was only trying to be empathetic. She stabbed a spoon at the now-melting yoghurt.

“She had you two abandoned for years, only coming home every morning when she feel so. She might give you money, but it’s not regular, and so you have to struggle paying for rent and groceries since you were a child. If I were you, I would’ve been running away from that home right now.”

Isaiah’s gaze fell at the frozen yoghurt. She pressed her lips. She’d be lying if she hadn’t given those any thoughts before—she’d been thinking of it, romanticized versions of running away from her past, her family, her _mother_. She dreamed of going away and not looking back. But she also was smart enough to understand that the only way she could truly run from poverty was to kill it with her own success.

So, her grades were always excellent.

“Did she leave any money for this month?” Naomi asked, startled her into a feigned surprise. She’d been talking all this time, but Isaiah had truly lost the part where she forgotten to listen, too busy wrestling with her own thoughts. “I mean, I know it’s not enough, just money. But at least when she did give you money, you wouldn’t be able to end like you two did back at ’10.”

As the thought visited her brain again, the spoon fell from between Isaiah’s fingertips. She leaned her chin to her hands and stared up at Naomi. There was a time when her mother disappeared for weeks, and they’d end up having to live at the Liebgott’s. Behind her eyes, Isaiah could still see the expression of shame that appeared on Messiah’s eyes even after Spencer’s mother had explained how they didn’t need to feel bothered to be there.

“She did,” Isaiah said lightly. “But it barely covers the bills. We’re lucky the house is rented now.”

“Let’s just hope no more mess will commence while those people are in your care,” Naomi put down her spoon as she had already finished her yoghurt. She pushed her brown hair away from where it fell to her face to behind her shoulders. When she smiled, her dimples were a strange, good-looking accent that complimented her smile. “I’d hate for you two to suffer.”

“You don’t really care about my brother, though,” Isaiah pointed out honestly.

Naomi replied to her with a shrug. “It’s not like he makes himself to be easily likeable. He annoys me. I’m not sorry. He should be, though, which he isn’t.”

“He has never done anything wrong to you.”

“_Yet_,” Naomi corrected quickly.

Isaiah couldn’t bother not to snort. “Yet, alright,” she agreed indifferently, though she couldn’t bother or not by Naomi’s constant paranoia about her brother. Her brother wasn’t even interested in Naomi in any kind of attraction ever existed in the world. Her brother was unapologetically gay in every sense the word provided; there was no room for compromises, even if it was in the form off a beautiful half-Japanese girl who was fashionable and wise.

Sitting back at her chair, Isaiah raise an eyebrow and stared at Naomi’s face. She had a small scar between her upper lip, which strangely complimented her face rather than distorting it into something that was far from pretty. Perhaps it was no longer about her face and rather how beautiful Naomi were, charming everyone and turning them into creatures that lived on her compliments.

To be honest, Isaiah wasn’t that kind of people who would fall into the category, but she was the first person who’d bring you coffee early in the morning because they knew you didn’t get enough sleep the other night.

“Messiah is still angry about something, isn’t he?” Naomi shot at her, a statement more than a question.

A shrug. “I don’t know what I’ve done to make him so angry, but it’s done, and how am I supposed to know the root of the problem is when he said practically nothing and expect us to understand what his problem is!” Her tone was slightly raised now, out of frustration that she felt towards her brother. No matter how she was dealing with him, he seemed like he was in one way to self-destruction, bringing her down the process.

She didn’t know what makes Messiah the way he was, and she didn’t try to find out, for she was afraid that she won’t be able to fix anything even knowing the reason. She never knew what to do with him—should she open the Pandora box or not? She was afraid it’d make everything worse and not better.

“Have you recall saying something that might hurt him or forgotten something?”

“No,” Isaiah grumbled. “I’ve been thinking on what might upset him, but I just can’t remember what I did or I did not do. It’s just pure frustrating. I wish he can just _tell _me, maybe we’ll overcome it together.”

The tips of Isaiah’s ear reddened as Naomi snorted. “Okay, this is trouble, you’re starting to sound like a cliché right now,” she remarked amusedly. “Just give him time. If it ever occurs to him that you can help, he’ll say something. All you need is to wait and maybe endure it just a little bit.”

She didn’t have another choice. She groaned, “I just can’t stand it. We used to be so close to each other… but something _changed_, you know? I didn’t even know what I do.”

“Siblings just grow out of each other.”

“Not us,” Isaiah rubbed the bridge of her nose before sighing. “I can’t stand it. I want to scream, but it won’t help. I want to cry, but it won’t help, either. I already learned that soon enough in my life that I have to wait until things have already cooled down for me to be able to help, but… I have a feeling that it won’t.”

She found Naomi’s hand around her wrist, as though she was helping her stand. Messiah might have Spencer who was always there since they were children. Her and Naomi’s relationship was newer compared to that. They had met in high school in the cheer club and they have been good friends since. However, Isaiah felt like they’ve known each other more than that.

Naomi was sometimes arrogant, sometimes oblivious to other people’s struggle, or the fact that she had privileges that came with her family’s old money. But she was _her friend_. Isaiah felt like there was a line Naomi could easily cross that she hadn’t cross yet, but even if she did cross that line, Isaiah felt like she couldn’t abandon her. She was the only one who tried to understand her situation, despite her incapability to—and for her that was enough, and more than anyone had ever manage for her.

She was her precious friend, she wanted to say, but all Isaiah could manage was a laugh, “Why are you so good to me?”

And Naomi had that tinkling in her eyes that indicated how she appreciated the gesture, appreciated the words. But all she did was tightened the grip at Isaiah’s wrist, the skin of her palm warm circling her skin, and said, “You are my precious friend, and I hate when you frown. Being sad is good, because everyone can’t be happy all the time, but there’s these kinds of situation where you’re sad for a long time and I can’t help you. All I can is stay here and hope that’s enough.”

Isaiah smiled. “It’s enough.”

“That’s great.” Naomi let go of her hand. “How about we check the store next door?”

“I can’t afford another pair of clothes, Naomi,” Isaiah found herself laughing.

“Can’t I just buy it to you? Casual ones? The one you bought are evening wear, for precious dates, but you haven’t gotten anything that comes remotely close to a really chic casual attire,” Naomi pouted as she said this. “I feel like you need more clothes that aren’t hand-me-downs from your mother. This is your fault for spending so much on your hair. You know what else would be good for your hair? Not dyeing it like this.”

“What can I say?” Isaiah shrugged. “My hair is my only resort of option in a life where I wasn’t given a lot of options. It might sound ridiculous, but to me it’s an act of selfishness. It’s my way of treating myself—and that’s important in a place where my family isn’t there to treat me.”

“I can treat you in your family’s stead.”

“Naomi, _no_.”

“You can’t stop me.”

“I _can_, you’re the same size at me! You can wear it!”

“Then I guess the clothes are just going to waste,” Naomi stood up and shrugged. “I’m sure you’d prefer that even more than accepting my gifts to you. Letting things go to waste.”

“You are being cruel!” Isaiah fell beside her as she made her way out of the shop. They were both tall as giants, long feet able to catch up with each other in many situations that had ensued in their life. “Don’t buy anything for me.”

“You are just plainly ungrateful,” Naomi exclaimed, sounding just a wee bit of hurt. But her hand was around Isaiah’s waist and her laughter was slipping from her lips, and for once Isaiah had forgotten everything, her mind focusing on how lucky she was to be granted the kind of friendship that she wanted half of her life.

They went to another shop near the frozen yoghurt shop after that, and they had managed to settle on a compromise: just _one _top. Isaiah had to charm Naomi into letting her buy a cheap ring in addition to that so she would give up the leather skirt she was forcing Isaiah to buy. Despite her apparent refusal, Isaiah felt a giddy feeling in her heart as the paper bag slipped from her fingers, front to the back, back to the front… and Naomi would have picked up a whiff of that within the five minutes they’ve left the store.

Naomi had parked her car in a church’s parking zone, to Isaiah’s refusal, and Isaiah had to look around if somebody had noticed the fact that they were holding shopping bags in a church’s parking zone, looking guilty and thick as thieves. Fortunately the church was almost empty; beside the one car in the nearest parking spot to the gate, they were left alone in the vacant space.

“We are so going to hell,” she muttered at Naomi, who snorted in reply. Naomi might not believe in God, but Isaiah was a devout Catholic half of her life, although she hadn’t gone to church for a long time. This was certainly a cherry on the top of all the crap she had done in their life—misusing church’s parking zone so they didn’t have to pay the fee they would’ve had to pay if they had parked near the store… never mind how rich Naomi was.

Naomi was getting the car out of the spot when a bus arrived at the bus stop in front of the church. The door opened and she squinted, instantly quietened. Naomi was not paying attention to what Isaiah saw, so she gave a flick of her hand as a signal, and the halfway-pulled out car stopped in the middle of the parking zone as both of them stared at the figure, who was stumbling and running from the bus stop to the entrance of the church.

They recognized the messy white hair. Isaiah had no idea whether his hair was something out of a bleach product or natural, but she had never seen the kind of hair anywhere near New Orleans before. “Isn’t that your tenant? Who’s his name again, José?” Naomi voiced her thoughts as she leaned in the steering wheel to peer closer at the passing face.

“Joe,” Isaiah answered shortly as her eyes didn’t leave the boy whatsoever. He was afraid the boy would disappear somewhere in the space between the vacant parking lots, swallowed whole by whatever evil resided in an abandoned, empty church. “Is there even a sermon at this kind of time?”

“I don’t think so,” Naomi answered quickly. “Maybe your dear tenant wants to confess something to the priest. Are you sure he doesn’t have a tragic backstory or something? You know, the least you can do when you’re putting advertisement of your house on the internet is to do a background check to anyone who offered to take the vacant rooms in your house. After all, you’re living with them. Don’t you think it’ll be a bitch if one of them turns to be an axe murderer?”

“Joseph is not an axe murderer,” Isaiah shook her head in disbelief. As Joe closed the church’s door behind him, she sat back against her chair, her shoulders relaxing at once then when he was already gone from the view. She looked at Naomi from the corner of her eyes as she grumbled, “It’s not right to say something like that, after all even if they don’t realize it they’re helping me pay for the bills.”

Naomi shrugged and started the car again. “That’s why. Even the Little Miss Sunshine, that means you, had something like a hidden agenda.”

“I doubt _trying _to pay for my bills consists as hidden agenda,” Isaiah answered. “But whatever float your boats, Princess.”

“Sure,” Naomi replied. She stepped at the gas and left the church parking area.


End file.
